


we're so disarming, darling

by middlecyclone



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Baked Goods, Cats, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5363108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlecyclone/pseuds/middlecyclone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh my dear sweet Jesus,” Bitty says, breathless, “Jack! You got a dog!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're so disarming, darling

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was 100% inspired by and written as a birthday present for my ultimate fave [Sriya](http://lehanes.tumblr.com/). It's basically just self-indulgent fluff catering to our intersection of horrific interests. I hope you like it, darling!
> 
> I also made an accompanying [playlist](http://8tracks.com/ericareyes/hurry-home-to-you) because I am nothing if not shameless and terrible.

**i.**

“Oh my dear sweet Jesus,” Bitty says, breathless, “Jack! You got a dog!”

“I did,” Jack says, with a smile, and Bitty drops to his knees to pet the golden retriever puppy that’s eagerly bouncing around his ankles.

“What’s his name?” Bitty asks.

“Her,” Jack corrects, “and I’m not sure yet. I’m thinking either … Manon or Marie-Philip?”

“Aw, honey, aren’t you sweet,” Bitty coos to the dog, petting her soft ears gently, and then looks up with an exasperated sigh. “Jack, you can’t name your dog after your friends. It’s weird.”

“They’re not my friends,” Jack says defensively, “I’ve only met Manon once, and Marie-Philip a couple times. It wouldn’t be weird.”

“Marie-Philip follows your empty dead shell of a Twitter account,” Bitty informs him. “It would be weird.”

“I just want to give my dog a Québécois, hockey-themed name—”

“That’s the most stereotypical thing you’ve said in weeks—”

“There’s nothing wrong with honoring an athlete you respect—”

“Jack,” Bitty says seriously, “how would you feel if Sidney Crosby got a dog and then named that dog Jack Zimmermann?”

There’s a long pause. The puppy pants loudly.

Jack makes a face. “Okay, I see your point there.”

“You’re not a hockey dog anyway, honey,” Bitty tells her earnestly, and drops from his awkward crouch into a full cross-legged seating pose so he can tug the dog into his lap. “You’re way too smart to ever want to put on skates and get pushed around the ice like the rest of us idiots. You need a better, cooler, non-hockey name.”

Jack frowns. “She could be a hockey dog if she wanted,” he says defensively. “I bet she’s great at skating.”

“Jack, she’s a dog,” Bitty reminds him, laughing.

Jack flushes a little, and then drops to join Bitty on the floor. “What do you suggest for a name, then?” he asks. “I want to give her a name that means something, not just … I don’t know, ‘Fluffy’ or ‘Fido’ or whatever.”

“Has anyone ever genuinely named a dog ‘Fido’ any time this century?” Bitty wonders idly, and then grins up at Jack. “I don’t know, you like history,” Bitty says, “not just hockey. It wouldn’t kill you to express like, multiple interests. Ooh, you could call her Ellie, after Eleanor Roosevelt! You like Eleanor Roosevelt, right?”

“She’s … fine, I suppose,” Jack says, bemused, and leans over to stare earnestly into his dogs eyes. “I’m not sure that fits, though.”

“Maybe not,” Bitty admits, and gently kisses the dog on the top of her tiny fluffy head. “It’s okay, honey, you may not be an Ellie, but we’ll figure something out,” he tells her. She licks his hand in agreement, and then crawls out of his lap and into Jack’s.

“Hey,” Jack says gently, and looks down at her with a soft expression of overwhelming unconditional love and astonishment in his eyes.

Looking at the pair of them, Bitty’s chest feels oddly tight, and he can’t stop himself from reaching over and touching Jack gently on the arm, just below where the sleeve of his worn cotton t-shirt blends into winter-pale skin.

“Jack,” Bitty says.

“Bitty,” Jack says, a question in his eyes.

“I’m really glad you got a dog,” Bitty says, but he means something completely different, he just can’t quite find the words to say what he’s really thinking. From the way Jack’s face softens, he knows that Jack understands what he’s trying to tell him.

“Honey,” Jack says.

“…What?”

“Honey. Her name is Honey.” Jack explains, “you’ve been calling her that since you got here, just as a, y’know, term of endearment, but it’s … sweet, and it fits her, and I like it.”

“I thought you wanted her name to mean something,” Bitty points out. “Not that Honey isn’t a good name–I love it, Jack–but I thought you wanted something deeper.”

“It does mean something,” Jack replies, “because it reminds me of you.”

There’s a long pause after that, and Bitty can feel all his emotions being writ across his own face, an embarrassing sprawl of shock and delight and, above all, tenderness and love.

“Is that okay?” Jack asks nervously, breaking the silence. “If it makes you uncomfortable I can always think of something else, I just thought–”

Bitty takes Jack’s hand and laces their fingers together. “Jack, it’s more than okay,” he says, and Jack smiles.

 

 

**ii.**

“Hey, Jack,” Bitty says into the phone, cradling it carefully between his ear and his shoulder as he reaches into the fridge for another carton of eggs. “What’s up?”

“Just … checking in, I guess,” Jack says. “How are your classes?”

“Fine,” Bitty tells him, “I love both my American culture classes, but marketing is boring as all get out, and that art requirement is kicking my ass. Other than that, things are good.”

“Good,” Jack says, and then stops.

Bitty waits for a long moment, listening to Jack’s breathing on the other end and cracking the eggs into a bowl. When Jack continues not to say anything, Bitty wipes his hands off on the dish towel slung over his shoulder and picks up the phone properly, abandoning his muffin batter for a few minutes to give Jack his full attention.

“Okay,” he says, “so tell me why you’re really calling.”

“I miss you,” Jack says immediately. “I wanted to hear your voice.”

“Oh!” Bitty says, taken off guard. “Well–”

“God, I’m sorry,” Jack groans, “this is so embarrassing. I saw you a couple weeks ago over Christmas break, seriously, I don’t know why I’m so–”

“Jack–”

“I’m sorry, I know you’re really busy with class and the team and everything right now, you don’t need me calling and bothering you on top of all that–”

“Jack!” Bitty repeats. “It’s okay!”

“I can leave you alone now, if you want,” Jack says sheepishly, “I just–”

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, don’t you dare hang up that phone,” Bitty orders. “I don’t want you to leave me alone. I missed you too.”

“Oh,” Jack says shyly. “Really?”

“Yes, you enormous weirdo,” Bitty laughs, “you’re my boyfriend, of course I miss you, and of course I don’t mind when you call me just to hear my voice. I was just a little–startled, I suppose, because that’s not something that we really do, often.”

“Sorry–”

“No,” Bitty cuts Jack off again, “don’t apologize. It could be something we do often, if you want. I want, probably. Definitely.”

“Oh,” Jack says, “Um, okay. I can do that.”

Bitty grins helplessly into the phone. “Okay. Good.” He shifts the phone back to his shoulder and goes back to stirring the muffin batter, because he loves Jack desperately but he is also capable of multitasking. “I saw your game last night,” he says.

“Yeah?” Jack says, voice clearly pleased. “What did you think?”

“Well, I thought you played really well,” Bitty says, “but your defense was definitely having a terrible off night. I mean, 3 - 2 against the Blue Jackets? You should’ve kicked their ass.”

“They’re actually decent this season,” Jack defends. “I mean, obviously we still should’ve kicked their ass because we should always win every game we play, but it’s not quite as shameful as all that.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Bitty says, and tries to quietly tear open a bag of frozen blueberries. It doesn’t work.

“What was that?” Jack says, laughing. “Did you just drop a bag of marbles on the floor? Eric, what–”

“It was blueberries,” Bitty says mournfully, “I’m making muffins. Also, did you just call me Eric?”

There’s a pause. “Um, yes?”

“Why?”

“It just slipped out,” Jack says, and Bitty can hear the blush in his voice. “It’s a good name.”

“Oh, I agree,” Bitty says with a giggle, and dumps the remaining non-floor blueberries into the mixing bowl. “You’ve just never called me that before. It’s always Bitty with you, and for a really long time before that it was Bittle.”

“You call me Jack,” Jack points out, “and–I don’t know. I guess it’s almost like … I called you Bittle as a way to push you away because I was an absolute nightmare my junior year, and I called you Bitty because you were my teammate and a hockey nickname was a way to, I don’t know. It was your name then, so I used it.”

“It’s still my name,” Bitty says, laughing. “I mean, Eric is my name too, but all the guys still call me Bitty.”

“That’s just it, I guess,” Jack says, “I don’t want to be just one of the guys.”

“Jack, you’ve literally never been just another guy to me,” Bitty says earnestly.

“You’re more than hockey now,” Jack continues, “So it seems outdated to use a hockey nickname for someone who’s become one of the most important people in all aspects of my–oh, I don’t know. This sentence got out of control, I’m sorry.”

“If you want to call me Eric because you think it’s more grown-up or, or intimate, then that’s fine. But you don’t have to,” Bitty says. “I like being Bitty. Being Bitty is how I met you.”

“I’ll use them both,” Jack says.

Bitty turns on the electric mixer.

“Oh, fuck, I forgot,” he says, as Jack laughs on the other end of the phone line, “Sorry, babe, I was totally on autopilot–”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, “It’s just funny.”

“I know,” Bitty sighs. “This dramatic, emotionally mature moment and I go ahead and ruin it by turning on kitchen appliances. Classic Bittle.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Jack says, and it’s meant to be a joke but it comes out unbearably fond.

Bitty wants to drop everything and get on the next train to Providence right this second, wants to sit on Jack’s couch snuggled under a blanket with his boyfriend, a boring war documentary on the TV and Honey sprawled across both their laps. He wants Jack to come back to Samwell, wants him to be sitting at the battered kitchen table with a textbook lying open and forgotten in front of him, ranting about the powerplay and stealing frozen blueberries while Bitty’s back is turned. Above all, he wants to kiss Jack again, wants to lean up on tiptoes to run his fingers through Jack’s soft dark hair and–

“Oh my god,” Bitty says, and his throat feels horribly tight as he talks. “I miss you so much, Jack.”

Bitty can hear Jack’s throat click over the call as he swallows. “Me too, Eric.”

“Okay, I take it back,” Bitty says, voice breaking a little, “I do like it when you call me that. You don’t have to stop with Bitty, but–”

“Noted,” Jack says.

“Okay, I need to hang up now or I’m going to start crying into these muffins,” Bitty says, “but you should call me again later.”

“Tonight?”

“Or tomorrow,” Bitty says. “Or–wait, shit, you have a game, don’t you?”

“Thursday?”

“I’ve got a group meeting,” Bitty says regretfully, “for fucking marketing–”

“I hate this,” Jack says. “We’re both too fucking busy, and it’s so hard to find the time to keep in touch.”

“Hey,” Bitty says, “We’ll figure this out, okay. You’re still coming to visit when you have a few days off at the end of the month, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“And after that, it’s only a few weeks until spring break,” Bitty points out, “and we’ll have a whole week together in Providence. It’ll work out, I promise.”

“I know,” Jack says, “I know. Anyway, so if I want to call tonight, and just–I don’t know, listen to you breathe as we fall asleep–”

“Then I would call you an incurable hopeless romantic, a tiny bit creepy, and an enormous embarrassing sap,” Bitty says, “but I would also say yes.”

“I love you,” Jack says, and he’s said it before but he still doesn’t say it often, so it means something that he’s telling Bitty again now.

“I love you too,” Bitty says, and he says it every chance he gets, and it’s not really possible to say it any more fondly than he usually does, but he tries anyway.

 

 

**iii.**

“Don't get mad,” Jack says, and sneezes.

Bitty blinks, and starts unwinding his knitted scarf, having just walked in the door a moment before. “Why would I be mad, Jack?” he asks. “What did you do?”

“You remember how we were taking pictures for the team animal shelter calendar today?” Jack says.

“Yeah, of course,” Bitty replies, “but why would I be mad about that?”

Jack stares at the wall, determinedly not making eye contact, an embarrassed flush rising up his neck. “There, ah, there may have been … an incident,” he confesses.

Bitty pauses halfway through unbuttoning his wool peacoat, a horrible realization dawning upon him. “Jack. No. Please tell me you didn't.”

Jack sneezes again, and then a tiny gray kitten trots out of the kitchen into the entryway and starts winding itself through Jack’s ankles. “Her name is Schuyler,” Jack says guiltily. “I'm sorry.”

“Jack,” Bitty says, exasperated, “you're incredibly allergic to cats. You've sneezed about five times in the past minute. Why, in the name of all that is holy, would you think it was a good idea to adopt a kitten?”

“I wasn't going to,” Jack defends, “but we got to the photo shoot and they handed her to me and I just … I couldn't resist. She's so soft, Eric.”

“Why do I love you so much?” Bitty sighs. “You're such an idiot sometimes.”

He leans down and picks up Schuyler. She has wide gray eyes the same color as her fur, which is exactly as long and fluffy as Jack had claimed. She meows, a tiny adorable noise, and Bitty’s heart melts.

“Can we keep her?” Jack asks, sounding exactly like an 8 year old boy who found a stray outside. “Please?”

“Well, yes, obviously,” Bitty says, and can't resist petting Schuyler gently between her tiny delicate ears, “but I'm going to go to the drugstore and buy you extra-strength Zyrtec right this second.”

“Thank you,” Jack says, “Bitty, thank you so much–”

“As if I could resist those big eyes,” Bitty says with a laugh, “both of you.”

Bitty transfers her to Jack’s arms, and he immediately sneezes again. “I think you're supposed to get less allergic to cats after living with them for a while,” Jack says hopefully. “So I'm sure I'll feel better soon.”

“I'm still buying you allergy meds,” Bitty says, and reaches up on tiptoes to gently kiss Jack.

“That is totally fair and I agree with your decision,” Jack says seriously, and then smiles helplessly at the cat. “Hi, baby,” he coos, and Bitty laughs and puts his scarf back on.

He comes back about twenty minutes later, Zyrtec and a value-pack of tissues in hand, and finds Jack sitting curled up on the couch with Schuyler. Bitty lingers in the entry to the living room, because he can’t bear to break up the overwhelming cuteness of the scene spread out in front of him.

Jack is sitting cross-legged on the couch, a fluffy blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and in the fabric stretched across his lap Schuyler is curled up asleep in a tiny little ball. Jack has one hand tentatively stroking her soft fur and the other holding up a heavy history book, which he is reading aloud from. “‘Pretty soon,’” Jack reads, “‘Hamilton was a constant visitor at the two-story Campfield residence, spending every evening there.’ See, kitty, isn’t that sweet?

Bitty can’t help it; he has to step in. “Jack,” he says, crossing over to the couch and putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder, “are you trying to teach American history to the cat?”

“She likes it,” Jack says defensively. “She’s learning.”

All Bitty can do is laugh. “Jack–oh, never mind,” he says, “now scoot over.” He wriggles himself under the blankets, and hands Jack an allergy pill.

“Do you need a glass of water?” Bitty asks. “I can go get you some–”

“Nah,” Jack says, “I got this. Thanks, babe.”

In his lap, Schuyler meows, a tiny noise, and then resettles herself so she’s stretched across both their laps.

“I was teaching her about her namesake,” Jack defends, “it’s not weird.”

“It is weird,” Bitty corrects, “but that’s okay. I love you anyway.”

 

 

**iv.**

“I want to talk to you about something,” Jacks says earnestly, and puts down a full mug of Bitty’s favorite lemon tea on their kitchen table.

Bitty looks up from his laptop where he’s editing his next vlog, and frowns. Jack looks unusually somber as he takes a seat across from Bitty, clutching his own mug of tea so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. “Jack, is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Jack says hurriedly, “I just have something I want to run by you.”

“Okay,” Bitty says, and closes his laptop, focusing all his attention on Jack. “I’m listening.”

Jack takes a deep breath, and Bitty can see how clearly nervous he is, and then he releases it and looks much calmer. “I’m going to retire at the end of this season,” he says plainly, and Bitty spits out his mouthful of tea.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, and jumps up to grab paper towels, “God, Jack, I’m sorry, that’s just not what I was expecting.”

“I know,” Jack says, “but it’s time. I’m 31, which isn’t–y’know, isn’t actually especially old, even in hockey years, but still. I’ve had my fair share of concussions, and I’ve been lucky enough that none of them have been bad yet, but–it could be only a matter of time. And when I hurt my knee at the end of last season, that’s when I started thinking that … maybe I should stop while I’m ahead.”

“Jack, you know I’ll support you no matter what decision you make, right?” Bitty says. “I–I’m not going to try and talk you out of this, obviously, because I worry about you all the time, but I also know how much hockey means to you, and I want you to be sure–”

“I love hockey,” Jack cuts him off, “but I love you more. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and that’s why I’m going to retire now, before I take one last hit that gives me horrible post-concussion syndrome and takes me out for a year or more.

“I've done what I wanted to by now,” Jack continues. “I've played some really good hockey; we’ve made the playoffs and made the eastern conference finals and honestly, if we don't make the cup finals this year then we’re never going to, and I've made my peace with that. I’d like a cup ring, sure, but more than that I just want you.”

“Jack--” Bitty says, overwhelmed, “I--”

“Which is why I wanted to talk to you today,” Jack cuts him off, and slides out of his chair to kneel the kitchen floor, and Bitty stares at him, confused.

“Eric Richard Bittle,” he says, “I love you, and like I said before, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“Oh my God,” Bitty breathes, realizing, “Jack–”

“I want to wake up next to you and go to sleep next to you and adopt twenty more dogs together,” Jack says, “because you are the love of my life and the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Bitty isn't crying, really, he isn't, as Jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny velvet box.

“Eric,” he says, and swallows, “Bitty, will you marry me?”

“Oh my God, Jack,” Bitty says tearfully, “of course,” and pulls Jack off the floor to wrap his arms around his neck and kiss him until they’re both gasping for breath and smiling too widely to continue.

 

 

**v.**

When he was in college, Bitty never could have imagined willingly getting out of bed before noon, but now that he’s older he finds he loves the early mornings.

Of course, owning a coffee shop means he never really has the option to sleep late anymore, but even on days that he lets one of his employees cover the opening shift, he still loves the calm and stillness that settles over the world before the hustle and bustle of the day begins.

Today is a crisp late October Sunday, and Bitty wakes with the honking of the last few Canada geese flying south overhead. He burrows into the warm cocoon of the comforter, and Jack’s arms tighten around him.   
  
“Go back to sleep,” Jack mumbles, and buries his face in the crook of Bitty’s neck.

Bitty relaxes into Jack’s arms for a few minutes, but as the rising sun gradually tints the room from gray to blue to pink, he grows restless and wriggles out of his grip, smoothing Jack’s bangs over his forehead when he makes a sleepy noise of protest.

He pulls an ancient Samwell Hockey hoodie on over his pajamas, and the way he swims inside the worn cotton indicates he's grabbed one of Jack’s instead of his own. He makes his way down the stairs to the kitchen, and hears Honey scrabbling around on the hardwood floors behind him, eager to go for her morning walk. Bitty starts the coffee maker and then grabs her leash,

Bitty stares out the window at the last red leaves clinging to the tree branches as he sips his coffee.

Jack comes slouching down the stairs, rubbing at still-closed eyes, and comes to stand behind him at the sink and leans down to rest his forehead against Bitty’s shoulder.

“Coffee?” Jack asks pathetically, and Bitty smiles to himself before leaning over and carefully pouring Jack a cup.

“Careful, babe, it's hot,” he cautions, turning to hand it over, and Jack just takes the mug out of his hands with a wordless noise and gulps deeply from it.

“Thanks,” Jack manages after a long moment, and leans down to press a gentle, grateful kiss to Bitty’s forehead. “I love you.”

“Oh,I see how it is,” Bitty says, laughing, “you only love me when I give you caffeine. I'm hurt, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jack says, “I love you all the time.”

“I know, I know,” Bitty says, and sticks his cold hands up the back of Jack’s t-shirt, “I’m just teasing you.”

Jack makes a wounded squawking noise, and kisses him gently on the forehead once more before making a strategic retreat to the window seat. Bitty lingers at the sink for a minute, sipping his coffee and simply watching the way Jack turns his face upward into the warmth of the early-morning light.

Schuyler pads her way over to where Jack is sitting and curls up into a ball on his chest, purring contentedly, and Jack reaches up absent-mindedly, eyes still closed, to gently scratch beneath her chin.

It’s probably the cutest thing Bitty’s seen in months. He almost tweets it but thinks better at the last moment. He wants to keep this image all to himself.

He sets it to be his phone lockscreen, though. He gives himself that much.

“Did you just Instagram me?” Jack asks.

“Nope,” Bitty says cheerfully, “lockscreen.”

Jack yawns. “I hate you,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” Bitty assures him, “you look really cute.”

“That’s not as encouraging as you think,” Jack mumbles sleepily, and somehow sinks even deeper into the window seat than he already was. He looks like he’s being eaten alive by blue-gray quilted quicksand. Bitty kisses him softly on the forehead and goes back to the kitchen.

He starts making lemon poppyseed scones, because fresh-baked goods always sell especially well on Sundays, and he needs something to do with his hands anyway. He pulls up one of his favorite baking playlists and plugs his headphones in before cranking the volume, humming along under his breath as he grates fresh lemon zest into a glass bowl.

Honey is laying on the kitchen floor near the fridge, not quite asleep but not quite awake either, her brown eyes open wide as she watches Bitty cook but her head resting sleepily on her front paws. She’s gotten fat recently–Bitty’s own fault, he supposes, from all the kitchen scraps he can’t resist feeding her. Jack takes her on long runs multiple times a week, trying to counteract it all, but Bitty is powerless in the face of her plaintive eyes and golden fur.

An old Adele song comes up on his playlist just as he’s placing the last tray of scones in the oven, and Bitty grins.

Bitty looks down at Jack’s sleeping face, calm and relaxed as he is only in sleep, and twists the cool, comforting band of his wedding ring around his finger. I can’t wait to spend the rest of forever with you, he thinks suddenly, and swallows. He doesn’t want to leave their home right now, not even for the scant 45 minutes it would take to run the scones over to their coffee shop. Because, and it’s the tiny sun-drenched moments like this they carve out for themselves that Bitty treasures above all.

The shop can do without the scones for today, he thinks, and slides his way onto the tiny sliver of window seat still left beside Jack’s bulk. Jack sighs and wraps an arm around Bitty to steady him from falling off the bench, but Schuyler doesn’t move an inch, her small fluffy chest still rising and falling in even breaths.

“Are you going to work today?” Jack asks, eyes still closed.

“Nah,” Bitty says, “I’m my own boss; I can do what I want.”

“That doesn’t stop you from going in every other day of every other week,” Jack points out.

“Shhh,” Bitty says, and puts his whole hand over Jack’s mouth. “I love the coffee shop, but I love moments like these more.”

“Oh,” Jack says, “Well–I’m okay with that. I guess.”

“Shut up and go back to sleep.”

“I love you too.”

Jack tucks his face into the curve of Bitty’s neck. He hears a scrabbling noise on the wooden floorboards, and a few seconds later feels the warm dampness of Honey eagerly licking his elbow, hanging over the side of the window seat. And with the warm bulk of Jack tucked against his side and the tiny weight of Schuyler on his chest, Bitty can’t help thinking that in this moment, there is literally no place on earth he would rather be.

 


End file.
